


Stimulation

by plingo_kat



Series: Affairs [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Consent Play, Crying, M/M, Overstimulation, premature ejaculation (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 14:52:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4881043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey,” Napoleon says, low and completely sincere, stepping close for a kiss slanted over Illya’s jaw. “It’s my pleasure.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stimulation

**Author's Note:**

> As prompted by vulcanyounot @ tumblr, overstimulated crying!illya. Some consent play: Illya proposes a scene to Napoleon where he may express reluctance but still wants to continue. Napoleon checks in and obtains his consent in-scene.

“We have several days of downtime,” Illya says abruptly.

Napoleon glances up from his newspaper, politely inquiring. “Yes?”

“I.” Illya looks away, out the windows of Napoleon’s apartment. “I want you to do something… for me.”

He tells Napoleon. Napoleon tries very, very hard not spring an erection.

“Of course,” he says, keeping his voice even with monumental effort. “I’ll take care of it.”

Illya flushes a ruddy color Napoleon has never seen on him before. The effort it costs to get his next words out is obvious. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” Napoleon says, low and completely sincere, stepping close for a kiss slanted over Illya’s jaw. “It’s my pleasure.”

 

“It hurts,” Illya grits out. His hands clench, fingers twisting in the sheets. “Napoleon, it _hurts_.”

Napoleon hums acknowledgement, shifting to put more weight on Illya’s thighs as he gasps, twitching in a flinch. Illya has come twice already in the past ninety minutes and his cock is soft in Napoleon’s mouth, an easy weight on his tongue. He gives a gentle suck just to hear Illya’s whine and then parts his lips to let Illya lie limp along his thigh, glistening wetly against the damp curls at his groin, and raises his head.

Illya is _wrecked_. He lies twisted on the bed, sheets mussed and rucked up around his shoulders, mouth red and slack, hair alternately stuck to his forehead and starting to form a mass of cowlicks. His skin is sheened with sweat and dotted with red-purple marks from Napoleon’s mouth and fingers, a roadmap of their activities that trails from his throat to his knees. Napoleon presses his thumb idly on a bruise bitten right on the meaty inner surface of his thigh.

“Napoleon,” Illya repeats, ragged.

“You asked for this,” Napoleon reminds him, taking a moment to push the heel of his hand hard at the base of his cock. He hasn’t even come once. “How are you? Color?”

“Co—“ Illya begins, but then shakes his head in realization. Napoleon sneaks another light touch along his cock and his voice breaks on the next word. “Ah! G-green.”

“Great.” Napoleon leans down for a kiss, lapping at Illya’s swollen lips and then dipping inside, groaning as Illya sucks on his tongue, his lower lip. He whines out a shocked noise high in his throat when Illya bites down hard enough to draw blood, copper blooming between them.

It stings as Napoleon tongues at it, bright little bursts pain at each rough probe against the split flesh. Illya watches him, breathing hard, rapt, mouth open; as Napoleon returns the gaze he swipes his tongue over his own lower lip as if to chase the taste Napoleon left there.

“You’re just asking for it, aren’t you?” Napoleon tongues at his lip one last time before pressing his thumb to the wound, dotting a splotch of red on the pad of his finger and then reaching out to smear it right along the heavy foreskin of Illya’s cock. Illya’s head tips back, chin rising, and swears through gritted teeth.

Napoleon laughs. Takes mercy, just for a minute, and moves his hands so they cup the backs of Illya’s knees and urges them up until his feet are flat against the bed. The inside of his thigh, slightly rough with hair, rubs against Napoleon’s shoulder as he wriggles his way back down.

“Now.” Napoleon breathes hotly over Illya’s cock, which is starting to plump up again. “Time for round three.”

Illya chokes out a tight, hurt noise as Napoleon nuzzles into the soft weight of Illya’s balls, musky skin and wiry hair pressing warm against his face. With his eyes closed he gives a gentle tilt of his head, just enough to feel the way flesh gives and rolls over the bridge of his nose, against the high ridge of his cheekbone and the socket of his eye. Then he sucks one of them into his mouth and grips Illya tight at the hips to control his jerk.

“Napoleon!”

Napoleon moans, deliberately loud, and presses his hips harder into the bed at Illya’s whine. He rolls the weight of Illya over his tongue for a moment, drawing it out through Illya’s sobbing breaths, through his own tight need, before letting him go to bite a mark where his thigh meets his ass. Illya’s whole body jerks, one foot kicking out and glancing off Napoleon’s hip.

“Ow,” Napoleon mutters against Illya’s skin, and bites again. Illya writhes.

He has to rear back for a moment then, or else things will be over too soon. He dodges Illya’s grab and slides off the bed just long enough to finally slide out of his pants: belt shoved halfway down his thighs sometime around Illya’s second orgasm, the soft cotton of his underwear wet and dragging over the head of his cock. While he’s up he has to palm himself, a quick stroke over the underside of his cock that presses the head against the hair trailing down his stomach, before he grips _hard_ at the base. Illya’s eyes are blue slits in his face, his mouth open in appreciative hunger.

“Please,” he breathes: hoarse, desperate, apprehensive. “Napoleon.”

Christ. _Christ._ Napoleon’s grip is white-knuckled, his hand clenched as tight as his teeth at the picture Illya makes, cock half-hard now, fattening and pink, still faintly gleaming with spit.

“Napoleon,” Ilya murmurs again, and spreads his knees apart with a rippling flex of his back and abdomen. Napoleon – loses his mind, is what it feels like, to a clear red lust that hazes his limbs and highlights his vision, preserving scenes like snapshots from a camera: his fingers digging imprints into the flesh of Illya’s thighs, Illya’s red and swollen mouth open in a helpless moan, the wet tracks of tears and sweat at Illya’s temple. Napoleon licks at them, tastes salt and the clean neutrality of Illya’s skin, breathes in and smells the faintly floral scent of the shampoo Illya steals from Gaby and suddenly none of it is enough, it’s never enough but that’s all right because Illya told him what he wanted, and Napoleon wants that too, wants Illya broken down for it, for him.

Something like a sob escapes from Illya’s throat as Napoleon reaches down to gather up his cock in his palm again. His hips twitch forward even as he flinches away from the touch, too sensitive and greedy all at once.

“Can’t, I can’t,” he gasps, head rocking on his neck. “Napoleon, I _can’t_ …”

“You will,” Napoleon promises, voice a throaty purr. “You’ll take it until you’re begging for me to stop, but I won’t, I’ll fuck you until you’re hard again, mindless, mine. It’s going to be so good, Illya, better than this, better than anything you’ve ever felt.”

 _“Da,”_ Illya whimpers. _“Da, da,_ Napoleon…” 

He trails off with a string of babbled Russian, fresh tears on his cheeks. Napoleon feels a surge of something too harsh to be tenderness but too strong to be lust hook deep into his stomach. His heartbeat throbs in his ears.

Illya’s chest heaves when Napoleon runs a Vaseline covered finger down behind his balls, pressing briefly against his perineum to see the way his face twists, the naked desperation in the knot of his eyebrows and his gasping mouth. He comes alive when Napoleon presses his finger inside: hands frantic over Napoleon’s body, pressing a big palm over the wing of his shoulder blade, over the curve of his hip. When Napoleon brushes his prostate his whole body jerks, a strangled whine escaping from behind clenched teeth.

 _Yes_ , Napoleon thinks. Everything except for Illya, the look and sound and _feel_ of him, seems very far away. Which why when Illya wraps his hand around his cock the pleasure takes him by surprise, scouring; he comes shatteringly, helplessly hard, all over Illya’s fist and stomach and chest.

“…Fuck,” he says after. Illya’s body under his begins to tremble. When Napoleon looks at his face, he sees that Illya is laughing.

“Okay,” Napoleon says. His finger is still in Illya’s body – he crooks it, and Illya stops laughing to gasp and arch. “I’ll fuck you _next_ time.”

“I will believe it when – nn! – when I see it,” Illya says.

“Oh?” Napoleon says sweetly. “Do you want another orgasm after this one?”

Illya bites down on his lower lip and shakes his head, but his cock twitches against his belly.

“Yeah,” Napoleon says, voice low and full of satisfaction, watching as Illya shivers. “That’s what I thought.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaand Napoleon brings Illya off one more time and they call it a night. OR Napoleon brings Illya off, checks if he wants to keep going, Illya says yes, and then Napoleon fucks him until he's a sobbing desperate mess (or at least more of one than he already is, by that point). USE YOUR IMAGINATIONS. I AM ALL TAPPED OUT OF SMUT.
> 
>  
> 
> plingokat @ twitter


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